Salvaged Together
by Musicalrain
Summary: Fill for the kinkmeme. Male quarian/female turian. A young quarian on his pilgrimage gambles with death, and romance, on Omega. Rated M for strong language and dark themes. Full-sized cover image found on my deviantart, Musicalrain0.


He didn't know why he was in Afterlife spending the few creds he managed to scrape together, despite Harrot's best efforts to see him stripped bear of everything he owns and laying motionless in a gutter. Then again, as he takes another drink of the dubiously filtered turian brandy, he remembers why he's drinking, and it's because of the same damned bosh'tet elcor. _Keelah_, but does he _hate_ his pilgrimage.

He's had too much to drink, he realizes, but he doesn't care. He doesn't have the creds for the antibiotics he'll likely need after his binge drinking, and he definitely doesn't have the credits to give a fuck. Ever since the damned Flotilla dropped him off on this shit-smeared station, he's been screwed over by every damned species dwelling in this hell-hole. An Earth vermin had chewed through his suit on his hip the previous night. He had to patch it with omni-gel and the plastic film that had housed his dinner. The reason he couldn't afford, or even _find, _the proper materials he'd need to patch it was because of that ass-faced elcor that enjoys fucking him over.

Oh, and he wasn't even the only quarian to be fucked over and sent to Omega for their pilgrimage, _the first fuck_ he notes, a dozen other young adults were dumped before the live-ship's transport booked it back to deep-space. He's pretty sure he's the last one alive. He hasn't heard a familiar filtered quarian voice in so long.

He takes another drink.

"Hey there, handsome," a husky, flanged voice whispers across from him in the booth he had claimed for himself.

In his drunken stupor he doesn't catch the rasping sub-vocalizations undertoning the voice, and is surprised to see a turian sitting across from him. A female turian. And he's fairly certain she's the most attractive female turian he's ever seen. Her plates are a brassy color, his favorite metal, her face unmarred from the confusing and crowded markings her people usually sport, and eyes a light silver that reminds him of his own people's. He misses his people.

"Hello," he speaks in turn with his soft voice, and is surprised it doesn't sound nearly as slurred as it ought to be.

"What's your name there, handsome?" She asks with a click of her small mandibles, and a sip of her own drink.

"Kenn." _Fuck the Flotilla, _he thinks, _I'm not using my cursed ship's name anymore._

"I'm Lyris," she says with a soft, pleased chirrup – happy for the exchange. She slides closer to him, a hand on his arm and a movement of her chest to bring attention to her exposed neck and cowl. "I know your people don't usually get out of your suits, but I'll still give ya a good time for 50 credits. Better than your nerve programs, handsome, I promise," she squeezes his arm slightly.

Now Kenn knows there's prostitutes on Omega, he'd have to be blind not to see them, but he's never been offered their services before. Most won't bother with a quarian.

His eyes widen, and he sucks in a harsh breath, unsure of what to say. "I don't have the creds," he spits out rapidly, and continues to stammer in a rush, "You're very beautiful, don't get me wrong, but I only have enough to get drunk."

Her mandibles droop in a turian frown and a displeased hum leaves her throat, "Pity. You're so pretty – from what I can tell, anyway." Her hand leaves his arm, "I'll be around, handsome, if you ever change your mind." She tilts her head slightly and brings his attention back to her neck, "I'm never too far from Afterlife."

…...

Kenn didn't die from alcohol poisoning or an infection like he anticipated. The alcohol was strong enough to kill the pesky little microbes, and his liver, apparently, is stronger than his immune system. The turian liquor only left him with an uncomfortable hangover the next day, and a blurry memory of silver eyes and brass plates.

Kenn goes about his business, under the overbearing self-appointed superiority of Harrot, for a week before a turian passing his shop startles his memory. Fuck, if it isn't that prostitute. _Keelah! What was her name?_

He doesn't have time to ponder that, as one of the vorchas that hangs around the gutters gets a little handsy with her – thinking he can take advantage of the scantly clad, unarmed, female.

"Spirits! Get off me you fucking pyjak!"

Kenn removes a not-oft used SMG, he had managed to keep a hold of it since the beginning of his hellish pilgrimage, from a secret panel in the wall near his workbench. He quickly loads the gun with a modded heat-sink, full knowing the regenerative properties of the groper, and curses his ethics as he goes to the prostitute's aid.

He holds his gun before him and says as authoritatively as he can muster with his normally soft voice, "Let the girl go!"

The vorcha laughs, and bites the prostitute's hand when she tries to shove his face away. She cries out in pain and effectively diverts Kenn's attention away from the vorcha's buddy with a shotgun – until the spray bites into his shoulder.

"Keel- _shit_," Kenn curses as he stumbles backwards only to fall into the low wall of his shop. With a hand pressed to his bloody wound, SMG forgotten, he watches fatalistically as the bastard vorcha re-cocks his shotgun with malice. A blue light envelops the vorcha, and then he's suddenly thrown with an incredible amount of force, with the original perpetrator, into the nearby wall with a _crack._

As Kenn starts to loose consciousness, the black coldness of blood-loss encroaching on his vision, a shimmering blue turian bends over him. "Y-you're a... bi-biotic," he croaks at the prostitute before the blackness claims him.

…...

Kenn really thought he would die this time, and not wake up with an aged salarian's face hovering above his faceplate. He blinks slowly, but the image of the salarian doesn't disappear.

"W-where am I?" His throat is dry, raw. A human girl holds a filtered water bottle to his induction port when signaled by the salarian.

"My clinic," he sniffles. "Dr. Mordin Solus. Suit repaired," he points at his shoulder and then hip. From what Kenn can see, his suit has been properly patched. "Shrapnel removed and antibiotics administered. Experimental antibiotics, rather. Surprised still alive. Should still expect fever, itching, potential respiratory distress for several days yet. Return in a week for second administration of antibiotics, and perhaps additional immunoboosters."

Kenn sighs heavily. He caught maybe half of that. "How did I get here?" He asks once his parched throat is soothed.

"Turian female carried you with aid of biotics. Treated her for vorcha bite," he sniffles again. "Disgusting creatures. Also recalibrated temperamental biotic implant. Functionality improved."

"Where is she?" Kenn suspects he asked that too quickly, because the doctor's expression shifted into one intrigued.

"Intended to leave after treatment, but stayed until you were declared stable. Unusual, as she did not display typical turian behaviors of attachment."

Kenn doesn't ask anything else of the prostitute, and leaves as soon as the doctor allows him to. Once he's outside of the clinic's doors, he starts as a familiar flanging voice calls out to him questioningly,

"Kenn?"

_ ._He turns towards her, and finds her dressed in typical turian casual wear, instead of the revealing outfit she had worn when attacked by the vorcha.

"I'm sorry, but I don't remember your name."

She tilts her head, and then shrugs. "You _were _pretty far in your drink," she smirks and walks towards him. She holds out his forgotten SMG, "You dropped this."

Kenn looks down at the offered gun with confusion as to why she would return the weapon. It was worth credits, quite a few with the modifications, and Omega practically ran on greed and disloyalty. He took the gun all the same. "Thank you."

She nods, "I'm Lyris." She chuckles softly, and Kenn notices that her silvery eyes glitter with her mirth at his expense. "Again."

"Lyris," he repeats to remember.

"I was wondering..." she shifts her weight. "Why'd you try to help me?"

He sighs and holsters the weapon on his belt. "It's just who I am... I guess Omega hasn't completely taken the good quarian out of me."

She watches his faceplate for a moment, and seems to come to a decision. "Would you go with me to eat something? Lunch, I mean. _Spirits. _I'm not good at _this_." Her mandibles quiver slightly, and her neck's flushed with a slight blue hue. "Nothing else. Promise," she raises her hands in a gesture of her sincerity. "I just want to thank you."

"Uh..." Kenn stutters, and he's pretty certain he's missing something, because why would the beautiful turian be _nervous _about going out with _him_? "That'd be fine. Good... Lyris."

Her radiant smile at his acceptance of her offer makes him forget his confusion. _Or I lost too much blood_, he supplies as an alternative explanation for his sudden shift in mood. The change is good... something he hasn't felt since leaving everything he's known to travel to the galaxy's most rancid shit-hole of a station. Maybe not too much of a shit-hole; it does have Lyris.

They go to a rather shady open-air turian restaurant, and Kenn finds that Lyris likes to talk. He doesn't mind. "So," the brass-toned turian takes a bite from the odd, yet tasty, turian dish that she had ordered for herself, and another for Kenn. "After I left the clinic I met this guy. Turian guy – has very impressive fringe. Nice ass too." For some reason Kenn feels his stomach drop, and a chill settle in his chest. "Said he saw my 'little' biotics display, and he offered me a job! A legit job... Okay, maybe not so legit. But I don't have to sell myself!" She grins, "He wants me to help out his team. 'Killing merc scum and cleaning Omega', he said. I didn't like the sounds of that, cause I don't need Blood Pack krogans on my ass, but he said he and his team look out for one another. He took me to his base, showed me around, and it looks legit. He said I can think about it, and he'll meet me in a few days to hear what I've decided." She takes another bite of her food, and now iron-hot worry claws at Kenn's gut. For some reason, it bothers him a great deal to think of Lyris killing mercs – and being in the midst of the danger that's associated with something like that. "I think I might take him up on his offer," she shrugs. "I even stopped by my place before I went back to the clinic, and you were still passed out. Is that normal?" Lyris asks with furrowed browplates.

Kenn decides not to comment on her possible career change, after all, who's he to say what she ought or ought not to do? Omega's a varren-eat-varren world, as the humans say. No matter what he's feeling... "Yes. Suit ruptures and injuries like that... are not easy on a quarian's body."

She frowns with a sad flutter of her mandibles, "That's terrible..." She fidgets slightly, "I'm glad you're okay, Kenn."

"T-thank you. And thank you for taking me t-to the clinic," he stutters.

She smiles again, "You're sweet. I like you." Her silvery eyes widen slightly, "Is that okay to say?"

Kenn nods and feels a broad smile pulling at his lips. She might be a turian prostitute and possible merc-slayer, and he a suit-rat with a death-wish, but he feels more than a little happy and giddy at her words. "Yeah. I like you too."

…...

Six months later, Kenn feels like the galaxy has dropped out from beneath his feet – he tries to kill himself with drink again. His damned liver is still kicking though.

Lyris... beautiful, and oddly sweet, Lyris is dead. "Dead! Fucking _dead_!" Kenn curses aloud and slams a fist onto the bartop before him. Drink spills in a sticky mess, but he can't even spare a care for the glare the barkeep is giving him. He just wants to join her in death, and if the barkeep puts a bullet in him for being a bother... it would be a blessing.

They had started seeing each other after she had taken him out to lunch so long ago, and Kenn was happy. He'd like to think Lyris was too. She had taken that damned-to-hell job, because she desperately wanted a 'legit' career change, and she had said that as a member of _Archangel's _team she could truly be with him. Only him. Keelah, but she only wanted him, and not to share herself with the disgusting, diseased populace of Omega. Kenn found himself wanting her too.

He moved into her place two weeks later, and he was surprised at how comfortable he was sleeping in a hard turian-made made beside the lovely brass-plated turian, and not on the mat shoved into the corner of his shop. She'd come home at odd hours from jobs with Archangel, and, more than once, Kenn had to guide her to the clinic due to an injury. Why the fucking bosh'tet varren-spawned Archangel couldn't be bothered to see to his own subordinate's health was beyond him. _Maybe_, he thinks, _maybe __Lyris __just __wanted __to __spend __more __time __with __me. __Wanted __me __to __take __care __of __her, and not Archangel. _The thought makes his gut feel both burning hot and freezing cold – more iron-hot anger for Archangel and his legacy warring with his fucked feelings for Lyris. They had gotten so close in such a short time.

Not as close as he wanted, or she wanted, however. They saved creds for the antibiotics and immunoboosters he would need to be completely intimate with her, and knew where to get them too – Dr. Solus' clinic. If you weren't injured, the doctor wouldn't hand out his precious medication for free, and he charged near-ridiculous amounts of credits to purchase the strong stuff. After six months of her gathering the scare creds she could swipe from fallen criminals, and he putting aside what he could from his shop in spite of Harrot, they were _so close_. Close enough that the thought _hurt_. They had shared intimacies in other ways, but he cursed his damned immune system and his suit. The lack of intimacy on that level made him feel inadequate, and ashamed. The feelings are still strong and, in his heavily inebriated state, they come back with a vengeance.

He wants to throw-up he's just so... _so _pissed, depressed, and just _sick_of the bitch that is the galaxy and his pilgrimage. He hates the Flotilla, Omega, his fucking liver, but he knows he hates the hugest bosh'tet that was ever in existence – Archangel. He just wishes he could resurrect the blue-suited turian, so he could shove his SMG between his browplates and shoot until the fucker's skull is nothing more than a blue, bloody pulp of fragmented bone and metallic plates. But the damned mercs finished him off three days ago. Omega couldn't even be bothered to give Kenn the satisfaction of killing the vigilante himself.

"_Bosh'tet_," he mutters angrily and swivels in his seat with the sudden desire to do _something_. And if it leads to his death, all the better. He wants nothing more than to join his beautiful metal-colored turian in death.

He stumbles out of Afterlife an indiscernible amount of time later, and spots what _must _be a delusional apparition that his mind materialized for his own brand of torture.

He fucking sees _Archangel _of all things, standing beside a human woman in black armor. Kenn checks his belt – he still has his SMG holstered. If Archangel is somehow alive, he will gladly make the turian bastard dead. He had met him a few times, and he _knows,_even in his drunken state, that that turian is the same one responsible for Lyris' death. He removes his SMG from his belt and stalks towards the turian and human.

"_You!_" He spits on the inside of his faceplate, and holds his gun shakily before him, but mostly pointed at the vigilante. "You killed Lyris! You-you bosh'tet! I'll kill you!"

"Kenn?" The turian puts his hands up in a non-threatening gesture. Kenn can't read the expression on his blue paint-marred face. "_Spirits_. Kenn I-"

"_No!_" He cries, tears streaming down his face, but hidden from the pair before him. "You're the reason she's dead! I heard all about it... I heard- the fucking Blue Suns won't shut up about it! Keelah! Do you know what they _did _to her? And now they _brag _about it!" He doesn't know how he's able to articulate all this in his current state, or why he hasn't just shot Archangel yet. "Why are you alive and she's dead?! Why-" he doesn't know what else he was going to ask.

"Kenn," the turian sucks in a harsh breath. "I know Melanis' death is on me. I know, Kenn. I know."

"No you don't! Y-you don't know... know a-anyt-thing," Kenn falls to his knees as his sorrow overwhelms him. He forgets he wants to see Archangel dead. Talking about Lyris' death is too much for him. He hasn't spoken about it with anyone since he learned of her terrible, undeserved, demise. His arms curl around himself, and the SMG skids away from him on the floor. "I just want to die!" he sobs. He can't breathe, he's crying so hard, but he doesn't care – he just wants to die and join Lyris in death.

…...

When he wakes up next, he's certain that the universe enjoys toying with him. He's not dead, and he hates it. He also doesn't have a hangover, which is odd. He was certain with the amount of alcohol he drank, he should be in a great amount of pain, if not dead. When he opens his eyes, he's welcome with the sight of a blurry and unfamiliar clinic. _Where am I?_

"You're on my ship – the Normandy SR-2." He must have asked that aloud, because when he turns his head he sees the human female that was beside Archangel sitting next to his hospital bed. "I'm Commander Shepard, and you're Kenn?"

He nods, amazed that movement doesn't hurt either. "Kenn'Iva nar Rayya." He'll use his ship name now – he doesn't care any longer, and it's only polite to use your full name in the presence of a ship's captain. Damned his quarian upbringing. "Why am I on the Normandy, captain?"

"We brought you here- look. I spoke with Garrus, Archangel, and he told me who you are. He worked with your mate, Lyris Melanis, correct?" She doesn't wait for Kenn's nod, "Well... we'd like to help you. I know nothing can bring your mate back, but I hate to see good men hurting." He isn't sure whether she's talking about Archangel or him. Or both. "Anything you need, just let me know."

"Anything, captain?" Kenn laughs bitterly. "I've been fucked since my pilgrimage started. I don't _want_ anything."

He sees the human captain frown from the corner of his eye. She puts a hand lightly on his shoulder, "Think about it. You're welcome here as long as you want, Kenn'Iva nar Rayya." He's surprised to hear an accurate, and surprisingly articulate, pronunciation of his name come from the human, before she leaves him alone in the ship's med-bay.

Kenn sits there, on that human-made bed, for a long, long time just in thought. Lyris is dead, his world is fucked, but here he is being given a _chance_, a reprieve from his hardships, by a human captain who's friends with the vigilante responsible for his beloved's death. Yes, Kenn loved Lyris. He may not have told her, and curses that he was too afraid to, but he did... does love her. The temptation to stay on the ship is great, but he just... just _can't _be in the same place as Archangel, if he can't seek retribution and the turian's death. The human captain doesn't strike him as one to allow him to put a bullet in Archangel's skull, and he's surprisingly not looking forward to his own death anymore. He's less determined to die, now with a clear head, but no less depressed by his whole situation. He finally comes to a decision some time later, and knows what he wants in his boon from the human captain.

Once he asks the ship's doctor to page her, he prepares himself for his requests. If the human captain doesn't oblige him in everything he desires, Kenn is prepared for the galaxy's continued fucking of his life. He doesn't expect anything more than that.

"Captain," he greets her as she sits in the same seat as before. She greets him in turn before he continues, "I'd like help completing my pilgrimage. I'm... done with life outside of the Flotilla. Things... were simpler before." Kenn still holds a level of distaste for the Flotilla, but at least the fleet isn't Omega. At least he has an alternative.

"What do you need to complete it?"

He sighs, "Credits mostly. Everything was stolen when I got to Omega, and I don't have much left. I need enough to secure transport back to quarian space, and I need something to present a ship's captain with to secure my place on a ship. Something that would be useful to a ship's captain, and the quarians."

She nods, "I'm sure I can arrange something." Then she smirks, "I do have experience helping with pilgrimages."

He bends his head to stare at his lap, ignoring her statement, "I'd also like for you to ensure that," he swallows harshly, "Lyris'... remains are looked after, and she'd be given a proper turian burial."

Shepard nods again, solemnly this time, "I can do that. Did she have any family?"

He shakes his head, "She was alone... Barefaced, the turians call it, and her parents died a long time ago." He sighs, "That is all I ask, captain."

She puts her hand on his arm in sympathy, similar to how Lyris touched him for the first time so long ago, "I can do that, Kenn. I hope things get better for you."

Keelah, but for some reason, he hopes so too.


End file.
